


Lyrian

by ladytrollfishes (tangelotime)



Series: Standalone Character Drabbles [2]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Angst, Gen, this is fantrolls
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-19
Updated: 2018-11-19
Packaged: 2019-08-26 03:16:57
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,481
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16673683
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tangelotime/pseuds/ladytrollfishes
Summary: A collection of one off drabbles about my fantroll, Lyrian Aubade, a subbjugulator interrogator with the power to hear people's emotions. She's Lawful Evil and very alone.





	1. Chapter 1

You are Lyrian and you are five.

The church madame beckons to you, half asleep, her song fuzzy but gentle and well meaning. The other subbjugulators dream quietly on the floor, melodies of glee, pain, love, horror, even the monotonous hums of dreamless sleep. The air down in the church basement hangs heavy with sweet humidity and sweat, grease smears punctuating the walls, the floor, the furniture. 

 It’s not quite to your taste but it’s the closest you’ve ever felt to belonging. 

“Darl’ my ears caught word of a wriggler wandering through town wearin’ your sign,” she says. “You ought to take a look and see what’s down with this little clown and see what you can spin with that lonely little nug of yours.“ 

 You nod, and she falls back to sleep. 

Someone wearing your sign? You can’t imagine why but you don’t think it’s a good thing. It’s not hard to find him. People know you in this town, even if it was for being mostly quiet and kind of mean so all you have to do is follow the sounds of confusion, of passerby wondering who the heck he is. 

He turns to face you as you catch up with him, wary and on guard. Indigo, you note, as you stop, of your very same shade, his face free of paint, your sign on his chest and his horns a mirror’s view away from yours. Somewhere in your bones you know him. 

You know about ancestors, but he’s not older than you. Your first thought had been that someone was impersonating you but he clearly was his own person. Suddenly a dreadful hope seizes you, that this boy could be your friend. 

Half a second later, you hear a spark of joy, wonder, a rush of happiness. The boy steps forward and makes a gallant bow with a smile on his face. 

“Harmon,” he says, offering a hand. 

“Lyrian,” you say, taking it. 

You hear yourself echoed in his joyous song. You both do. 

———- 

Harmon makes more of an effort than you do. He flirts with the girl with a practiced ease. You can hear as well as he does how she’s responding. She’s leaning in, expecting more, so he tilts her chin up and kisses her on the nose.

You don’t know why he bothers, to be honest. It’s boring when you have the playbook that everyone wants, when you twist people to feel whatever you want in a game that’s all about feeling. 

He’s got a trail of people he’s talked to over the course of the early morning all eating out of his hand, like so many paper dolls dancing along his string. There are a few outliers, of course. Another corner-dweller, a sullen cerulean lady eyes him jealously while a hapless lowblood keeps stealing glances at her from the punch bowl. 

Everyone stays away from you.

You make people nervous and you prefer it that way. The only reason you came anyway was because Harmon wanted you to be here, and no one wanted to tell him his creepy signmate couldn’t come when he wanted her there. 

You sigh, putting your untouched drink to the side and leave. 

It’s not long before you hear worry follow you. He should really know better than that. 

“Go back to the party,” you say. “I’m fine." 

"I know,” he says. “But you weren’t having any fun. Well, except for the bit where you made that kid pee his pants." 

 You smile thinly. That  _was_ fun.

"I just wanted to say you don’t have to come to these things with me any more,” he says, putting an arm around your shoulder. You consider it. He hears you deliberating and he settles in when he hears you’ve made a decision, humming his own anticipation. 

“No,” you say. “I like spending the time with you, watching you work. In moderation though. It’s very noisy in there and I don’t know how you stand it.” He chuckles giving your shoulders a squeeze. 

“Alright,” he says. “I’ll head back now. See you soon." 

 ———- 

"I’ll see you next time, darling,” Malaph says with a drawl and a wink. 

You roll your eyes and scowl at him as he slides out of the building, back to whatever slimy pit he crawled out of. Harmon’s waiting for you in the lobby and you don’t need your powers to understand what he’s feeling. His mouth is dropped open, his eyes wide. 

“You like him,” Harmon says, astonished.

It’s been a long time since Harmon’s surprised you like this. You give him a look, echoing his song. He shakes his head, moving into something akin to excitement. 

“Well not like,” he says, rushed, “but you’re pitch for him.”

“I am not-” you start, but he raises a finger. You’re sure you blare displeasure but he drums on through, powering on with crashes of excitement. 

“I spend more time with people than you,” Harmon says. “I’ve had several people crush black on me-" 

"So have I-” you stutter, “I know-" 

"But you can’t hear yourself!” He exclaims. “You’ve never felt like this about anyone before!" 

You can’t help but scoff unbelievingly. He snaps again, looking at you with a melody of excited certainty and not a little bit of smugness, at which you roll your eyes.

"You’ll figure it out,” he says, unable to help himself, grinning, and then offers you an arm. 

You will most certainly not.

You take his arm anyway and together you leave the building. 

—- 

Harmon’s jealous. It’s a fast paced cello bass line, that’s been growing ever the louder in recent days, especially when you’ve spent more time around Malaph. 

Even when he’s not there, there’s always some smugness you hear in the background like he’s winning some ridiculous contest only he cares about, that  _you can always hear_.

He snaps to attention, his song a nervous hum. 

“This was  _your idea,”_ you say. “I don’t know what you expected from this.”

He glances away, guilt humming. If he’s going to try to  _lie_  to you- the guilt changes to resignation and you raise an eyebrow, waiting for him to speak.

“I didn’t think you’d get  _this_ attached,” he says sullenly. “I don’t like him.”

“Neither do  _I,”_ you say exasperatedly. “We’re dating pitchwise. Liking him isn’t on the table. I don’t mind when you go on your little flings.”

You hear him sputter and protest before he opens his mouth to do it.

“But they’re not  _important_ ,” he says. “Not the way  _he_  is to you.” 

Not the way we are to each other. 

Harmon’s still looking at you, desperate for affirmation. He’s really going to make you say it, isn’t he when he really should know how you feel about him better than anyone. 

You sigh and reach up to tuck a strand of his hair back in its place. 

“Obviously you’re both important to me,” you say. “But if I had to choose, I’d pick you.”

You stand there for a moment, your hand in his hair. You love him, also obviously. He should know that. 

“You’re being a fool,” you say instead. There’s no heat in your voice and probably not in your song either. “Please get over it.”

Harmon sighs and wraps his arms around you. He sounds like begrudging acceptance, which you’ll take. 

“Sorry,” he says. “I am playing myself for quite the fool. I’ll be careful not to do so anymore.”

Careful not to get any paint on his coat, you hug him back.

——–

You sit still, very still, in the lobby. Your hands are in your lap and you don’t look at anything in particular. One breath, and then another. That’s all you need right now. 

Your mentor goes through the paperwork with the legislacerators, murmuring by the desk table, a flurry of urgency and monotone boredom. 

“Lyrian?” Harmon approaches carefully, evening out his breathing, toning anxiety down into calm. 

You don’t snarl at him like you want to. You know he’s doing it because if he echoes you, you’ll end up in a feedback loop, and if he’s doing that, you must sound very terrible indeed. 

“What are you doing here?” you ask him quietly. 

 "I was passing by and I heard you from outside,“ he replies, sitting next to you. "What happened?" 

You don’t answer him. To say those words would be too heavy, the stitches holding together the hole in your chest too fragile to bear its weight. 

Harmon’s song chimes with soft understanding. You assume he knows what loss sounds like. He knows there’s only one person besides him you feel anything for. 

He settles next to you. His song pangs gently, an echoed hurt.

“What will you do?” he asks you quietly. 

“I will make everyone involved pay dearly,” you reply, just as quiet. If you let any control slip from you now, you will lose it entirely. Unacceptable, especially in public. 

He nods and his song swells with a soft determination in support of you. He will always have your back, you know. 

“Next time you notice me getting attached to someone, Harmon,” you say, “don’t tell me.” 

He stills and goes quiet, his melody reduced to a heart beat’s thump of worry. It’s somber when it restarts. 

“Alright,” he says. “It’s just you and me.” 

——

It’s just you. 

You’ve been spending time in uncharacteristic places. Bars, parties, sports games- loud, roiling places with the cacophony that is the whole emotional spectrum at once. It’s unbearably loud, threatening to overwhelm you but it’s more bearable than the silence. 

You never realized that you had spent so much time with Harmon that you had developed a constant ear for him. It was as subtle as a heart beat and its loss has left you bewildered. 

You buy earphones and a music player and never remove them until you return to work. It’s unprofessional, and you need your hearing to do your job properly. 

You step into your office for the first time since you’ve been declared fit to work. It’s large and sterile, a display of power in a city cramped for space. It used to mean something to you. 

It is silent here. 

Your throat closes up as something breaks inside you  _again, you thought you were done with this, with the break downs and the tears and the screaming and the pain, that unbearable, untouchable pain._

When you’re breathing normally again, you’ve broken your office as well. You’ve thrown your bookshelves to the floor, your coffee table snapped clean in half, the pots holding fake office plants embedded into the dry wall. Your throat hurts, and you’ve ruined your paint again. 

You can’t continue like this. You thought you could handle coming back to work, but no, you need a change. 

When Malaph died, you had suspects in custody. You had a job to do. You had your revenge. You would have it again. 

But as the facts of the case revealed themselves, you’ve come to realize the pissblood who killed him was beyond your reach now. You take a deep breath as you find your path in front of you, and you feel yourself turn cold. Perfect. 

You clean up, redoing your paint, and go back down the stairs. 

“I quit,” you say, dropping your keys on the front desk to the shock of your secretary. You hear her stutter, but you don’t turn back to look at her as you head out, less than an hour since you arrived. 

You have a job to do.


	2. Liar

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> From an ask prompt: Lyrian and Liar. A What If scenario.

> _Lyrian Aubade | 27 sweeps, 60 years_

You’re not wearing your paint. You slide, then, into the bar with little notice, dressed in civilians and your strife tucked away. 

Paint affords you certain advantages. For example, it hushes a room. Those that are non-mirthful will look upon your painted face and feel the quiver of fear in their gut, covered, perhaps, by songs of anger and anticipation. But a chorus was much better than….

This.

There are the highs- a group of friends celebrating a promotion in one corner, a couple kissing shamelessly in a booth, several drunkards laughing at the bar. There are the lows- two trolls mourn heartbreak at a table, there’s grief coming from a table upon which you can see several empty glasses piling up, and anger, seething fury getting buried under alcohol as you take a deep breath and roll your neck and resist the urge to murder someone to make them shut up.

But doing so would interrupt the performance. 

Lagato Necran, bar performer and possible informant, stands on the platform of a stage in front of cheap velvet curtains and croons into a microphone, dressed in a sequined tuxedo. He just about glitters as he moves in the spotlight. A cheap performance, though you admit his voice isn’t bad. A sizable portion of the bar sits and pays attention to his song, keeping some of the cacophony at bay as he sings of lost love. 

It’s a reconnaissance mission. Necran had underground contacts, that much was certain, but he kept his nose clean. A little fish to set bait for bigger ones. You sit down at the bar and order a shot. It’s not the most professional thing to do, drinking on the job, but the buzz makes the cacophony easier to tolerate. 

You’ve been doing the job for long enough to know alcohol impairs you much less than the urge to scream and  _make_  the room stand at attention.

You slam the shot and leave it on the counter as you make your way closer to the stage, taking a seat. It’s better near the stage, as the quiet buzz of alcohol takes effect. The louder the performance, the quieter everyone else gets. You can hear Necran himself, broadcasting brassy tones of pleasure as his audience, at least part of it, sits spellbound. 

He sounds familiar to you, somehow, from many sweeps ago. You watch him sing, trying to place a finger on what exactly seems so familiar to you. You swear you’ve seen him before. You swear you’ve heard him before. 

You watch as he sings through several more songs, when he drags his gaze through the crowd and meets your eyes. You recognize the set of his brow. You recognize the scar up his cheek. His horns are different, and he looks older but there is no mistaking it. 

It’s Malaph. 

You want to reach out and snap something, but your hands remain in your lap as he finishes his last number and takes his bow. You stand, something buzzing in your ears that’s not the alcohol, that’s not the cacophony, and face him. He was only an inch taller than you. That hasn’t changed. 

“Uh,” he says, taking a step back. You hear notes of unease and uncertainty. He doesn’t recognize you. “Can I help you?” 

You take a step forward, and then another as he backpedals. You reach out to grab his stupid sparkly lapels and pull him closer, staring into his eyes. 

“You don’t recognize me without my paint?” you murmur. “Malaph?” 

You see it then, the blink of recognition in his eyes. 

“Lyrian?” he murmurs, then breaks into a laugh. You can hear his nervousness then you can hear it smooth away. “Oh my god I didn’t think I’d ever see you again.” He settles his hands on your hips. 

“Neither did I,” you say, and you kiss him. 

He’s a regular at the bar, and he has a little dressing room he frequents. His hands are roaming up your back as you nip at his teeth, and as soon as the door closes behind you, his hands are at your shoulders, peeling your jacket off. 

“So what brings you to town,” he mutters, laughing, against your lips. 

“Mm,” you hum, shrugging of the jacket and tossing it to the ground. You push him backwards on the make up counter until his hips lay tilted on the edge. “You,” you say, as you take his hips and settle them against yours. “I came looking for a Legato Necran, and I found you instead.” 

He laughs and kisses you, as he strips off his stupid sparkly bow tie, and smacks you with it. 

“I’m just irresistible,” he says. You rip the tie from his fingers and throw it aside, meeting his forehead with yours and push him to the mirror, pinning him there. He’s just warmer than you, and you can feel his pulse pounding against yours.  

“I thought you were dead,” you say, and the sound comes out more plaintive than you intended. you bring your hands up to his head, cradling it as you talk between kisses. “But instead you were just a liar.” 

“Well no harm no foul, right?” he says, unbuttoning his shirt. 

“I avenged you,” you whisper. “You broke my heart.” 

Malaph slows, his hands sliding to your hips. “Lyrian,” he says, his voice no louder than a breath. You don’t slow. You press kisses to his cheeks, down his neck, you run your hands down his chest, to his hips, to his legs, to your gun, and when you pull away, you put the barrel to his forehead and he only has a moment for his eyes to widen before you pull the trigger. 

There’s a bang. 

His body slides down from the broken mirror and you catch a glimpse of your reflection in the fractured glass spattered with blue blood, disheveled, panting. 

You step back before his corpse can release its bladder.

If Harmon were here, he would say you sounded silent. You don’t feel anything but empty. 


	3. Office Drama

You sit at your desk, neatly filling out the paperwork for the case. You don’t particularly care for your new coworkers, and they don’t care for you. You’ve taken a corner desk in the office, as sequestered as you can be from the roil of emotions that travel through the precinct. 

“Yo, Aubade,” one of the other legislacerators says sliding onto your desk and jostling your paperwork. You glance up at her irritated, narrowing your eyes. She smiles at you but she’s blaring with irritation. You can’t remember who she is- a glance at her name tag tells you it’s Officer Numiri. You think you might have had a few words with her partner earlier. You think you’ve seen them together. 

“If this is about your partner’s incompetence,” you say testily. “Take it up with the training sergeant.” 

Numiri keeps the smile on her face but her melody flares up in enough anger that you know you’ve hit your mark. 

“Just a word of advice,  _newbie_ ,” she says, “You might have been the big fish in your little pond, but it’d do you good to tread a little lighter.” 

She’s not going to leave, and technically you don’t have the authority to make her, so you sigh. Her melody’s buzzing with anger, yes, but if you listen closely you can hear tones of protectiveness, and jealousy. You make your best guess.   
  
“I won’t intrude any more on your little pet project,” you say, listening. She modulates to suspicion. That was true. “You’ve got a thing for your partner, anyone can see it.” Derision. You’re wrong. “You’re the powerhouse of your partnership- you get all the credit, all the glory–” the merest tinge of fear- “so long as your partner’s dependent on you.” 

The precinct’s fallen silent, looking at you, and you glance around until you see the partner you chewed out earlier. He stands out from the crowd- his fear is not anticipatory dread, but genuine fear for another person at your mercy. He’s genuinely, anxiously, attached to her, in a very red way, that she doesn’t return at all.

“You’re grooming him,” you murmur, so only Numiri can hear. “Aren’t you? You don’t have any quad jewelry, and you’re old enough that it’s almost drone day for you. Sure you might be a little attached to him, he’s  _yours_  after all, but he’s just a means to an end.” Anger crashes like cymbals and you grab her wrist before she can slap you. 

“How’s your brother doing?” she snarls back in your face and you see purple. You’re a full three castes higher than her, and when you tighten your grip, you can feel her wrist bones grind together.   
  
Anger modifies immediately to fear again, and she tries to yank away her arm, but you hold it fast. You pull her closer in, off balance, and make sure she looks you in the eye. 

“You’re outclassed,” you murmur. “Quit while you’re ahead, or you’ll live to regret it.” 

You hold her there for another moment until her fear settles into a reluctant surrender, and let her go. She backs away, rubbing her wrist, her melody still bouncing around from indecision, but you’ve already turned back to your desk. 

You have better things to do than indulge in office drama. 


	4. Vulnerability

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A What-If. These two characters never actually ended up meeting lol.

He carries you back when it’s clear you’re having trouble. You’re holding a bloody jacket to your side, your hands coated in sticky indigo. Your clothes are entirely ruined.

You’re out of practice in the field. The beast had gotten close enough to grab you, but you had jerked away in time and instead it’s claws scraped down from the side of your waist, to your hip. It wasn’t very deep, but you did need stitches.

“More bark than your bite, huh?” Benoit rumbles. He has not once stopped being amused at your predicament.

“I’m better with trolls,” you say stiffly. You need to get back into fighting shape and soon, before you try and tear out Benoit’s throat on top of everything else.

The concierge stands up in shock, his alarm blaring in brass when you arrive, the two of you just about drenched in blood. At least it’s not all yours.

“Sh-should I call a mediculler?” He stammers out.

“Don’t bother,” you snap, before Benoit can say anything. “I can handle it.”

You’re getting too worked up over it. Sure your breathing is a little shallow with all the blood you’ve lost, and you’re in a cold sweat from the pain, but you don’t want another bug-eyed medic peering over you. You’ve had quite enough of hospitals.

“Oh? And what do you know of de medical arts?” Benoit says, raising an eyebrow. A twist of curiosity adds itself to the flute of amusement. He passes by the desk and heads for your room.

“In the interrogation room I do not break what I cannot fix,” you say. “You cannot question a corpse. And this I can fix this just fine.”

You made a point of it. Treatment of the subject created feelings of dependency that most other interrogators foisted onto the resident medic. You’re no mediculler, but you can handle the basics.

The door to your room serves to be little barrier because Benoit kicks it open. You scoff a little. No finesse.

“All I had to do was reach over and open it,” you inform him and he drops you unceremoniously onto the pile. You glare up at him.

“Oui, yes, but you might hurt yourself,” Benoit says, facetious. “Now tell me what you need.”

“A towel, some warm water and my medkit,” you say. The clothes you are wearing are glued to you with blood and you will probably need to cut them off.

Benoit brings you the kit, and the towel, and runs the sink for water. You reach for the kit and wince. He puts a hand on your shoulder and pushes you back and opens the kit up for you himself.

“As I said, you might hurt yourself.” He grins at you and you bare your teeth.

“Stop talking for once in your life and hand me the scissors and the bottle of white pills,” you snap. He does so obediently, but he’s enjoying himself far too much for your taste.

You snarl, putting power behind it, and you’re rewarded with a twang of fear, but as usual, he fucking giggles. There was nothing this man did not find amusing.

“Cheri, you are getting terribly testy for someone who needs me,” he says. You hate that it’s true.

“Put pressure on the wound,” you say instead. “I need my hands.”

He leans forward and slips his hands under yours and presses down. He can put a lot more pressure on than you can and you sink into the pile. He grins as he hovers over you and you glare up at him as you open the pill bottle. You take two of the pills, painkillers, and toss aside the bottle for the scissors. You cut through the cloth of your shirt and start to shrug it off.

“Here, let me help you,” Benoit says, taking one hand off your wound and putting it behind your neck, pulling you up enough for the rest of the cloth to slide behind your back.

“Who knew I would be helpin; you take off your shirt so early in dis relationship,” Benoit says.

You grit your teeth. “Shut. Up.”

He giggles.

You’re not modest about your body no, but Benoit is very close, and you’re still wounded. Vulnerability was never a good look on you.

“Lift your hands,” you say, and he does. The bleeding has stopped, you think. You need to get it cleaned, get some stitches in and wrap it properly.

You hold your hand out. “Towel,” you say. “And wet it.”

He hands you the towel and you start peeling away the bloody coat, dabbing and loosening the blood enough for you to pull it loose with minimal pain.

Benoit whistles low as the wound reveals itself. For once he doesn’t find it funny. Was that a bassoon’s low line of worry? You ought to be flattered.

“Are you sure you don’t want to see a mediculler?” he says. “That is quite nasty.”

“Quite sure,” you say. “Hand me the antiseptic.”

He clears his throat.

“Allow me,” he says. “I may not have de trainin’ but I believe dis much I can handle.”

You hesitate a moment, but his melody is earnest, at least, in this. You’re sure if you die on him now he’ll be much less entertained in the future.

You nod.

He wets the towel with the antiseptic and washes the wound. It stings, even though he’s gentle with it, even with the painkillers. You clench your teeth, bracing as he ministers the wound, running the cloth in long strokes along your side.

“Shhh,” he says, his melody slow and luxuriant. He’s enjoying this. “Relax.”

You don’t say anything. You’ll relax when you’re dead. And you’re about an inch away from strangling Benoit, wounded or no.

“ _Relax_ ,” he says again. “You’re not breathing.”

You’re not. You take a seething breath through your teeth.

“Dere,” he says. “All done. Was it so bad, cheri?”

“Don’t talk to me,” you say through gritted teeth. “Suture kit, size 5. And from the black pouch, the uh- the forceps and needle holder. There’s a pouch. Second one from the left and first on on the right.”

He grins knowingly, and gets you what you need.

You know you may have made a mistake when you take the materials and your hands shake. You can still do it, but it will scar. You hate scars, but not enough to tell Benoit you’ve changed your mind.

“Are you alright there?” he asks, as you fumble the needle. 

“I’m  _fine_ ,” you snap, but he puts his hands over yours, steadying them. 

“Stop.” he says. “Show me how it is done, den, if you do not wish to see a mediculler. Dis is foolish.” 

He’s serious for once. His melody is woodwind, quiet but building. There’s hints of concern, anger, and for once, the flute’s amusment is in the background. You were really beginning to hate the flute.

You hold his gaze, intent, and finally take stock in your own condition. Sweat beads on your forehead, because the pain killers haven’t quite gotten you through the wounds, You’d be angrier if you weren’t so hurt, but as it was, you were running dangerously low on energy.

You need help. The angle at which you need to stitch demands it. This insistence on staying away from the mediculler is an issue of yes, pride, but also of a sinking sorrow you don’t want to touch. Your best option is Benoit.

“Fine,” you say finally. “Watch.”

You do the first stitch, show him how it’s done, explaining the steps as his hands steady yours in the operation.

You offer him the tools and shift to your side, with your back to him so he can get a better angle. You give him a baleful stare over your shoulder.

“Don’t fuck this up,” you say. “With your big fat fingers.” What are you, six? You really must be tired.

He laughs, the flute back full strength and sets to work. You watch like a hawk, and he does a passable job.

“Gauze is in the kit,” you say, exhausted. “I’m sure you know how to work that.”

“Mhm,” he hums, and starts taping gauze on your side. You rest your head in the pile. Your life has changed too much in the past perigee. 

You freeze when you feel cold fingers drift across your back. The skin there is a mottled network of dark burns and shiny cuts, the scar tissue still new.

“Stop that,” you say without looking at him.

“What happened?” he asks instead, his porcelain fingers still trailing along your back.

“It figures you’re not a man very attached to his fingers,” you hiss. You’re going to snap that arm of his in half.

He laughs in that stupid amusement/fear combination again, but he retracts his hands.

“My question, cheri,” he says, finally finished taping up your side. “It still stands.”

You roll back over so you can look at him without craning your neck. He’s serious. He doesn’t know what happened.

You laugh, and Benoit blinks in surprise, echoed in his melody with a rare brass note. You think it’s maybe the first time he’s heard you laugh.

“You should read the news more often,” you say, and start throwing away things in the pile that have been soaked with blood and antiseptic. “Now leave me alone.” 

If he can’t figure it out, you’ll have his license as a bounty hunter revoked for incompetency.

You have the pleasure of hearing him sing a violin’s wandering confusion, and a brassy twinge of anger, before he picks himself and leaves without a word. 


	5. RIP

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warning for Suicide. 
> 
> Yet another What If- how Lyrian might die.

 

You stare down at the gun sitting on the table in front of you. It’s a RS891 model, sweeps old, but polished, gleaming in the dim light filtering in through the shades. 

It was given to you as a gift once, a lifetime ago, when you were still an interrogarroter. A piece of evidence from a case you helped close. A relic of a weapon now, but one you always carried, for some reason. 

No. You won’t lie to yourself now. 

You kept it because it was Malaph’s. It had been evidence in his murder. You had worked the case relentlessly even as an apprentice. Everyone knew what it had meant to you. The gun had been a thank you, and a rare thoughtful touch from your mentor. You kept it as a memento of his memory.

You moved on. 

Then, sweeps and sweeps later you encountered him again. The murder had been a faked death. You won’t dwell on the details, but you made sure the death took that time. 

After that, you kept the gun as a reminder of the lethal nature of attachments. 

You’re older now. Your face bears wrinkles, bare of paint, and you still have the gun. 

You cannot say you were a good person. The line between law enforcement and crime could be as simple as a badge and paperwork, but you always did the right thing, until Harmon died. 

You don’t dwell on that either. Even after so many sweeps, it still aches like an open wound. Chasing vengeance then, was the only thing you truly cared about, and in the end, everything you built crumbled around you. 

It took you too long to see how pointless it was. The carnival never had your back, it was a bloated ourouborus snake, a circle jerk that fed off it’s own pride to support a government that only stroked it’s ego so they could nanny their feelings about powers beyond their control. 

Pointless.

And so were you, in your desire to do something meaningful with your life. You honestly can’t see the point at all. 

In the end it’s an easy decision. 

You pick up the gun and place the barrel against your temple.


End file.
